


The Steward and The Bow-Maiden

by Mejhiren



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (as always), (as we long suspected), Alma Coin is the Witch-King of Angmar, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Middle Earth, Aragorn!Finnick, Bearded!Peeta, Chatelaine of Gondor, Crossover, Dark-Featured Rohirrim, Denethor!Raisa, Dúlinn, Eomer!Gale, Eorlingas are Seam-Folk, Eowyn!Katniss, F/M, Fair Gondorians, Fantasy, Faramir!Peeta, Female Merry and Pippin, Female Nazgul, Finnodair, Heledir, Houses of Healing, Katniss Sings, Kingfisher - Freeform, Lord of the Rings, Minor Character Death, Platonic AU Gale, Post-Mockingjay Elements, The Plant Book, The Return of the King - Freeform, The Steward and the King, Virgin!Everlark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-22 00:16:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/603673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mejhiren/pseuds/Mejhiren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A retelling of the beautiful Houses of Healing sequence from Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, with Katniss and Peeta as Éowyn and Faramir. A Hunger Games/Lord of the Rings Crossover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Steward and The Bow-Maiden

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PenelopeWeaving](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenelopeWeaving/gifts).



> Merry Christmas, PenelopeWeaving! This isn't *precisely* what you asked Santa for, but I have reason to believe you'll enjoy it just the same. :D
> 
> A few quick clarifications:  
> \- A *very* small handful of lines have been quoted directly from The Return of the King.  
> \- Some LOTR characters have been gender-reversed to fit the HG cast of characters, and a few small name changes have been made to better accommodate Tolkien’s world. (Should confusion arise: The Witch-Queen of Angmar is meant to be Alma Coin.)  
> \- Full notes and acknowledgments (most especially to my beloved beta, who contributed a critical line to this story) to follow after we authors are revealed.
> 
> ***
> 
> "[Eowyn] was… not really a soldier or ‘amazon’, but like many brave women was capable of great military gallantry at a crisis… [Faramir] had been accustomed to giving way and not giving his own opinions air, while retaining a power of command among men, such as a man may obtain who is evidently personally courageous and decisive, but also modest, fair-minded and scrupulously just, and very merciful. I think he understood Eowyn very well.
> 
> In my experience feelings and decisions ripen very quickly (as measured by mere ‘clock-time’, which is actually not justly applicable) in periods of great stress, and especially under the expectation of imminent death. And I do not think that persons of high estate and breeding need all the petty fencing and approaches in matters of ‘love’. This tale does not deal with a period of ‘Courtly Love’ and its pretences; but with a culture more primitive (sc. less corrupt) and nobler."  
> \- J.R.R. Tolkien, Letter 244

Day had broken in the White City, a thin and hopeful dawn, and Lord Peeta walked alone through the gardens of the Houses of Healing. An apt name for such a place, he thought often, and not merely for the healer’s trade practiced therein. It seemed even the moss beneath his feet bore restorative powers.

He paused beneath an ancient apple tree, its branches tipped with brave green buds, and settled at its base, favoring his right leg as he sat. The healing had been wise, tender and swift, but still the young lord felt a whisper of Shadow in the wound from a Haradrim’s arrow.

He pressed his back to the ragged bark and thought of his brother Luka, whose brawn was unmatched among the warriors of Gondor. Golden, kingly Luka, with his tawny mane and hazel eyes, who had ridden forth boldly to join the Council at Rivendell.  Mighty, valiant Luka, who carried Halflings through the darkness of Moria and fought an army of Goblins to defend them.  Headstrong, foolish Luka, who wished that a Steward might become a king; who succumbed to the power of One Ring, perceiving it as a mighty weapon in the hands of Gondor, and finally redeemed himself in death at Amon Hen.

Luka, their mother’s beloved.

Peeta thought of their mother, Raisa, Chatelaine of Gondor, who had hovered at the brink of quiet madness ever since their father, the beloved Lord Janek, had fallen untimely to an Orc’s blade, some ten years past. Luka she had loved with all her being, and his death had driven her beyond the edge of reason. The siege and Peeta’s own wounds had simply obliterated any remaining vestiges of sense.

She had always misliked her younger son, whose pale blond curls, blue eyes, and gentle manner made him a living reflection of his father. She would without hesitation have seen her sons’ places exchanged: for Luka to have lived and Peeta to die; it should have surprised no one, and perhaps did not, that she thought to set his fevered body alight in the House of the Stewards.  _Already burning,_ she had crooned against his hot brow, her sinewy arms holding him to the pyre, almost lovingly, as the men of the Tower approached, bearing oil and flame. She would have succeeded, and immolated them both, had it not been for the courageous intervention of Rue, the dark Halfling, bringing to Peeta’s aid the wizard Plutarch, whose bold action saved the young lord, though not his mother.

Peeta last saw his mother standing wild-eyed and proud atop the pyre in her Chatelaine’s robe of lustrous samite, her ruddy golden hair tumbled from its coronet, mingling with the flames that devoured her body. He was too terrified to weep, even in his fevered state, fearing that this towering creature of fire might yet descend from her deadly throne; might reach out to embrace him once more, to enfold him into blistering agony in her blazing arms. It was, after all, her wish that they both die in a glorious, blinding inferno.

But he had not died, neither by flame nor Southron’s tainted dart nor Black Breath, and for this he must thank his King. _Finnodair._  A name of legend; a name whispered by the earth itself – by the very stones of the White Tower. A name to make the White Tree bud and bloom once more.

His very appearance seemed as much legend as truth. The aureole of bronze hair, bright as a polished shield, even in the dim light of the healer’s chambers. The face and physique of a beardless youth, though he was well past his eightieth year; even in a Chieftain of the Dúnedain, such ageless beauty was startling. The strength in his golden hands, to wield a sword and to heal the darkest wound.

Peeta’s mind had been clouded with fever when first he was brought to the Houses of Healing, yet he had known, at once and of a certainty, that the healer’s arm moving above him bore his brother’s vambrace. Impossible though it was, amid the stench of blood and singed hair and somewhere, horrifyingly, charred flesh, he could smell Luka on that strange healer, and he had raised a weak hand to grasp Lord Finnodair’s wrist, to feel the familiar worn leather, and the White Tree embossed there.

When Peeta had last seen that vambrace, it had been high summer, and Luka dressed in his lightest cloak for the journey to Rivendell.  _See if you might grow a beard before I return, little one,_ he’d teased, chucking Peeta’s hairless chin with his knuckles.

Seven months later, Peeta stood guard on the western shore of Osgiliath, his cheeks soft with his first beard, and beheld the high-prowed Elven funeral boat of his brother.

A voice, stern yet melodious, broke into his reverie: “I am told you alone can grant me leave to depart.”  A woman’s voice.

He looked up and raised his brows in surprise – nay, wonder. Of a surety, never had there been one of the Rohirrim in this most intimate heart of the White City, and yet the woman who stood over him could only be a maid of the Mark. Her skin was dusky as a dove’s breast, dark nearly as a Southron, and her black hair fell to her waist in two heavy plaits, one over each shoulder, perhaps less neatly woven than they might have been. He wondered whether she had attempted the braids herself and been forced to seek another’s aid, for her left arm was bound, close to her chest, in a white sling.

She wore a plain tunic of crimson wool, high-collared and long-sleeved, belted snugly with a cord at her narrow waist, and slim trousers of coarse cloth; and the young lord smiled at the sight, for the clothing was his own, from boyhood. There was women’s raiment aplenty in the White City, more so since the passing of the Chatelaine; this Rohirric maiden quite clearly wished for none of it. He wondered whom she might have bribed for a youth’s garb, and how they knew where to seek those forgotten things.

The trousers, while not unduly fitted, followed the contours of her legs, long for a woman of such modest stature and leanly muscled, and he thought, _Here is one who could guide a steed with her hands bound at her back._ A woman of Rohan, born to horsemanship and bowcraft. Her countenance, while surpassing fair, was grave and scowling – disappointed, he imagined, at his informal posture and simple attire – and had in it something of Oromë, Huntsman of the Valar.

Peeta thought he had never seen beauty in flesh – nay, not even of Elven blood – till he looked upon this woman.

“You are the Steward of the City?” she asked, furrowing her brow in impatience, for he had not spoken since her first address.

He had never thought to stand as Steward, nor would he for long, at the return of the King. He rose to his feet. “I am, lady,” he replied, and smiled again, for despite her fierce presence and slender strength, she was such a _little_ thing, scarcely more curvaceous than a spear-shaft. The crown of her braided head stood no taller than the young lord’s chin.

“I wish to be quit of it,” she declared. “To see it only at my back, as I ride east toward the battle and a warrior’s death.”

His heart was overcome with grief at these words, though he could see it now: the despair, the dullness in her gray eyes. “You think little of they who healed us,” he said softly, nodding toward the sling that bound her arm, “of the one who mended your injury, that you would cast aside their ministrations so lightly.”

A flush of scarlet burned at her cheekbones. “Rather I think too highly,” she retorted. “T’was Lord Finnodair and kingsfoil which drew the Shadow from this wound, no common herbwife. I ride now to battle – to die – at his side.”

At these tidings Peeta knew she was more gravely wounded than first he had realized, and wondered at it, even as he told her, “You are too late, maid of the Mark. The Captains are now two days hence; even the swiftest rider, hale in body, could not hope to keep pace with them, and you are wounded. Moreover, I have not yet taken up the authority of Steward; I am Captain of the White Tower, it is true, and yet as much a prisoner of the healers as your fair self.”

“Then take up your rank and let me go, Captain!” she cried. “For my uncle, Lord of the Mark, lies dead in your Citadel, and my brother, last of my kin, rides east, one of those Captains of whom you spoke.”

He knew her then, and wondered how he had not guessed at once, despite her humble garb. “You are the Lady Katniss,” he breathed. “King Abernathy’s niece.”

“No longer any man’s niece, nor daughter,” she said stiffly. “Only Galen’s sister, and that may end soon enough in a single bowshot. Will you not let me go, to join my kin in death?”

His lips tightened then, for the words she spoke fell too near the final wish of his mother in her madness. “I will not, lady,” he said, but gently. “The finest of every race now ride to the Black Gate; for my part, I feel they will triumph. And in this our part shall be the harder: to remain behind, in hope and dread, until their returning.”

She opened her mouth to protest yet again, when from behind her came a squeak of protest, and a blonde Halfling maid appeared at the lady’s side “The Warden told you as much, lady,” she said placatingly, and in accents that made the young lord smile, for he had had dealings with others of the Shire, and recently, and their humble speech was a strange comfort to him. “Let me send for a meal, and afterward you may rest.”

“I am weary of rest!” Katniss cried, and she turned in her boots – her own, Peeta observed, supple and superbly crafted for a Rider of the Mark – and departed into the house.

When she had gone, Peeta bid the Halfling walk a little with him, and share her knowledge of this fierce Rohirric maid. Primrose, the Hobbit was called – “Prim,” she insisted – and she was best friend and cousin, many times over, to Rue, the Halfling who had sworn herself to the Chatelaine’s service and, at the end, defied her mistress to save Peeta from the pyre. Where Rue was dark, Prim was fair, as pale-skinned as Peeta himself, with tumbling curls of gold and cheerful blue eyes. Unlike Rue, who proudly wore the black and silver tunic in service to the Chatelaine, and who had departed with the Captains at Plutarch’s own insistence, Prim seemed only too content in the pretty child’s frock the healers had found for her. Here, Peeta realized, was a merry Hobbit, no less brave, yet perhaps more easily contented with the simple pleasures of food and drink, a rousing song, and a fine soft bed.

Prim told him of the great Muster of Rohan, of how dark and fearsome Abernathy, whom the Halfling loved as king and father, had made her his own esquire, with a hill-pony to ride upon, and she wished above all things to follow him into battle, and indeed, made many pleas to this end. And yet the king would have left her behind, and the Lady Katniss too, at Edoras, but Katniss had guised herself as a young man, winding her braid beneath a helm, and had with Prim joined the Riders in secret, concealing the Halfling beneath her cloak.

And in the heat of battle, when Abernathy had fallen before the Witch-Queen of Angmar and her Fell Beast, crushed beneath the body of his faithful horse, it was Katniss who leapt forth to defend the dying king, roaring her defiance.

 _Thou fool,_ the Black Rider had boasted. _No living man can hinder me._

At this Katniss had laughed, or so it had seemed to Prim, and thrown off her helm, letting fall the glory of her thick black braid. _No living man am I!_ she cried.

All in armor, she was, the Halfling told him, and as radiant as the sun. Peeta thought he would give the last of his heart’s blood to have seen her at that moment.

With her keen bow, Katniss had pierced the eyes of the Nazgûl’s mount, driving the beast to its belly in death, and the Witch-Queen, no longer mocking but enraged, had risen up over the maiden and swung forth her iron mace. Katniss had met the blow with the only shield to hand: her fine bow, which shattered, even as it spared her life, but her arm was broken in the impact, and she crumpled, weaponless, before the Witch-Queen’s fury.  All might then have been lost, but for Prim’s own burst of courage. Seeing Katniss’s peril, the gentle Halfling had drawn her own short sword and stabbed blindly into the Witch-Queen’s robes, as high as she could reach.

The blow was true, for as the Lady Katniss was no man, neither too was the Hobbit maid, and the Witch-Queen fell to her knees before the injured Rohirric maiden, who drew her final arrow with her good arm and plunged it into the faceless black mantle, obliterating the foul creature who haunted the dreams of so many in Middle-earth, not least of which Peeta himself, who had encountered the Witch-Queen mere days ago at Osgiliath.

This victory, of course, was not without fearful consequence. The sword arm of both maids, Halfing and Rohirric, hung cold and lifeless from their blows against the Witch-Queen, and both were gravely distressed by what the healers called the Black Breath – the slow, cold, inexorable progress into ever darker dreams, silence, and death, wrought by the presence of the Nazgûl. Peeta knew this malady well, for he too had suffered of it – many months now, he realized, little by little, till in his fever he scarce knew the waking world from the chill horror of his black dreams. And as with him, so it was the healing hand of Finnodair, coupled with the virtue of athelas, which drew Katniss and Prim from out the Shadow that leads to death.

Peeta had noted in his converse with Katniss that she spoke of Lord Finnodair with sorrow and passion in equal measure, and he pressed the Hobbit maid delicately to learn what lay at the heart of such fierce emotion.

“She was sore distressed when Heledir – that is, Finnodair – made to leave Dunharrow by the Paths of the Dead,” Prim told him, “and was, I think, more deeply grieved that he did not permit her to accompany him.”

“Does he hold her heart?” he asked, a strange twist to his lips. “Him you call ‘kingfisher’?”

“Thus he was called among the Rangers,” the Halfling explained, “for his bright plumage and skill in the water, I am told, and thus we knew him first. It seemed that fish leapt into the pan, when it was he who sought them. Once at –”

“And of the Lady Katniss?” Peeta prompted, but gently, full aware of a Hobbit’s tendency to digress into storytelling, especially where food was concerned. “She loved him, I think?”

“It seemed so for a while,” Prim answered, and her voice was now low and sad, “though, of a certain, her attentions were not returned. He has, near a lifetime already, loved the Elf maid Anniwen, whom we saw but briefly in Rivendell. A rare beauty, she is,” the Halfling sighed. “A pale birch, tall and slender, with eyes the color of Litheday clover and hair like a dark river, smooth and shining. I suppose,” she ventured, “we might see her in this place, when Hele – Finnodair – returns as King.”

“I suppose we may,” Peeta answered her equably.

The young lord thought and walked, and walked and thought, and kept his silence so long that it seemed he had forgotten the Halfling at his side. And thus Prim was greatly startled when he turned to her of a sudden and asked, “Can you bring the Lady Katniss to this garden in one hour?”

“One hour? But surely that will be elevenses-time!” Prim exclaimed, and at once grew rosy and shame-faced, but Peeta laughed merrily. “So it will,” he agreed, smiling. “It seems I heard tell of such a thing from your cousin, when briefly she dwelt in the White City. Beseech the Lady Katniss to walk about the gardens in an hour’s time, and in turn I shall assure you of seven daily repasts, to which I am told your folk are accustomed.”

At this the Hobbit maid gave a cry of delight, clapping her dimpled hands like a child, and, bobbing a curtsey to Peeta, hurried back to the house in the direction that Katniss had departed.

Peeta looked after the Halfling as she went, his bright eyes somber, and contemplated the Lady Katniss. Despite his tender years, the Chatelaine’s younger son was accounted a master of both beasts and men, but this renown was won through wisdom and gentleness; a certain eloquence, too, and a firm hand when needed, but never cruelty or force. And he saw in the Rohirric maid something of a trapped animal; an eagle in a snare, she seemed: wounded and furious, yet magnificent, beating golden wings against her bonds.

To such a creature, he knew, one cannot minister, for it sees healers as no better than captors; it will snarl and snap at any who approach and worsen its injuries in its thrashing to be free. First he must show her that this place was no prison but rather a haven of rest and care, and where better to begin than the foremost among any living creature’s needs?

With her bound arm, she could not cut her own food any more than she might braid her own hair; such a realization would – nay, already _must_ – gall her, but it would anger her no less if her food should arrive from the kitchens already cut, drawing attention to her infirmity, and the fact that even the humblest laborers knew of it. And so he sent for a small feast: a roasted fowl with tender green herbs; bread, honey, and cheese; and sweet wine – hearty portions all, but undivided. When the meal arrived, he spread a cloth beneath the apple tree under which Katniss had found him, seated himself to one side of it, and laid out the food as it would be at a banquet. Then he awaited the Halfling’s fulfillment of his request.

And indeed Katniss did return to the gardens, mere moments after the repast had been delivered, and Peeta caught his breath at her altered appearance. Perhaps his words had made some small impact, or perhaps she had resigned herself to the present situation; regardless, she walked forth from the house, garbed not as a boy, but in a slim gown of fine linen, deepest blue. The Chatelaine’s own, he realized, from many years past, when Lord Janek still stood at her side. Katniss’s black hair had been carefully rebraided by the Hobbit maid or one of the healing women and now lay in one thick plait over her right shoulder, its end brushing her hip as she walked.

Peeta marveled that noble Finnodair had refused her, for surely no woman, mortal or Elf-kind, could be fairer than the Rohirric maid at this moment. She stood before him, strength clad in beauty, the loveliest being ever to draw breath in this garden, but her eyes were hard and suspicious as they took in the meal he had laid out.

“I was given to understand that you desired my presence, lord,” she said, “and yet no order was given. What would you have of me?”

Peeta blushed beneath his beard. “Will you break bread with me, lady?” he asked, gesturing at the cloth to indicate that she should sit opposite him. “I am oft alone in this place, and would be glad of the company.”

She scowled as though this were some great concession but seated herself on the ground, and despite her brusque manner, her movements were fluid and graceful. With his strong hands, the young lord broke the crusty bread and offered her a piece, dipped in honey. Katniss hesitated – there was something of a wary beast about her, scenting at once food and danger, and resisting the one for fear of the other – but she took the honey-bread at last, and the small wedge of cheese he offered next, and the cup of wine to follow.

And in her sight Peeta carved the roast fowl, cutting choice bites for them both, and he felt the alteration in her gaze when she realized his intent – to feed her as he did himself, without drawing attention to her injury – but she said nothing, in protest or otherwise. And once begun, she ate eagerly of all that was provided, and if she took more often from his hand than from the platters, it served merely to delight the young lord.

Thus it startled Peeta when the first words she spoke at the close of the meal were, “Please let me go, lord.”

The silence between them had been companionable, or so he had thought. “Do you think yourself a captive, lady,” he wondered sadly, “whose daily movements are directed always by another’s will?”

“I think myself a prisoner, who is kept where they do not wish to be,” she answered him.

“That much I cannot alter, nor would I,” he reminded her, but kindly, “lest I defy my King, whose own wish it was that you remain in this place, if not abed, some ten days.”

To this she gave no reply but looked away, and there was that in her eyes which might be pain. Peeta recalled once more her dealings with Lord Finnodair, and wondered if this enforced convalescence was, to her, yet another rejection.

“I know a little of loss, lady,” he said quietly, stretching out a hand to brush hers; she started a little at the touch but did not move away. “Of losing a father – or him you thought of as father – cruel and untimely. Of remaining behind when a brother departs, perhaps to his death, and being unable to do more than watch and wait.”

Her gray eyes shifted back to him, their expression strange, but still she did not speak, and he wondered if this was the first she had heard of the sorrows that had elevated a younger and lesser-loved son to the highest seat in Gondor, save for the King’s own. “I have little enough left to lose, ‘tis true,” he admitted, “though still I should find it a comfort – nay, a pleasure – if, in these endless hours of waiting, you might, from time to time, consent to join me in these gardens. The Warden will make no objection.”

“And how should my presence comfort you, lord?” she asked, frowning. “A strange woman of strange tongue? Surely a man or maid of Gondor would be better suited to the task, or even the little Holbytla, with whom, it may be understood, already you have passed some time in conversation.”

Peeta was acknowledged to be deft and clever in speech, but at Katniss’s words, he faltered somewhat. “These I would not refuse, nor seek to avoid,” he said. “But it is your own company, lady, which I desire above any man or maid’s.”

He had thought in this to pay her a compliment, but she only scowled the deeper, her proud cheeks dark with shame. “Such a rarity am I to you, Chatelaine’s son?” she challenged. “A dark bow-maiden of Rohan, that you bid me tarry in your company?”

“That and more, lady,” he answered truly, and this time he did not falter but regarded her steadily, his bright eyes holding hers. “You are a wonder I could never have imagined, nor believed, had I not seen it for myself: a lady fierce and surpassing beautiful; valiant and lovely at once. Even the jeweled words of the Elven tongue must fail to capture such radiance.”

At this Katniss’s cheeks grew darker still, in anger now. “Why do you mock me, lord?” she cried.

“I do not, nor could I ever,” he answered, and reached for her hand, but she drew back from his touch. “I admire you, Lady of Rohan,” he said, but the words were sad, for he understood now the grief that would drive one newly healed of wounds to seek again for battle and a warrior’s death: the grief of loving one who persists in ignorance in the face of a lover’s kindnesses, and can no more be wooed than a trapped animal can be healed.

More he would have spoken then, even knowing it would serve him naught, but Katniss rose quickly to her feet. “I am dark and little, lord, and unworthy of your esteem,” she said, her color high, “but I am grateful for the freedom to walk about the gardens, and will repay you with my company, if in truth you think it a fair price.” Then with a curtsey she took her leave.

Peeta watched her depart and thought on her pleas. She wished to leave the White City – and wished for death, neither of which he could bear to grant, even if it was in his power. To the east were her thoughts directed, and in this, perhaps, he could do her some small service. And so he gave orders that the Lady Katniss and Prim the Halfling be given comfortable chambers on the eastern side of the healer’s house. Both, he knew, had those among the company for whose return they cared exceedingly, and in providing both with a window to the east, where their thoughts went, their eyes might follow, even if only a little ways.

Prim sought him out afterward with hearty thanks, for though she had thus far spoken only briefly of Rue, it was clear she misliked the danger and distance that at present lay between them. She offered Peeta a share of the “very good tea” the kitchens had prepared for her, set with iced cakes and sandwiches and a tiny pot of cream, and he declined, but kindly, for the Halfling’s delight in that one small piece of her former life was all the repayment he desired.

He did not see Katniss again that day, and at length went early to his bed. He was not a stranger to nightmares; and though they had lessened somewhat at the sweet odor of athelas and the soft command of his King, still his sleep was not untroubled. Since the siege, he dreamt most often of fire, of his mother’s arms embracing him into flame, but that night it was Luka, pierced with many wounds and yet living, whom the Chatelaine hefted onto the pyre. And though Peeta, paralyzed in the manner of dreams, pleaded to carry his brother before Lord Finnodair, that he might yet be healed, the Chatelaine paid him no heed as she tenderly bathed Luka’s face and limbs with perfumed oils, then swaddled him in rippling blankets of flame.

Peeta woke from the dream with a start and looked about him, but the cry that had roused him was not his own. It came again, fearful and pained and very close by, and he rose from his bed at once to follow the sound to its source.

He knew who it was that cried out, and where she was lodged, and he moved swiftly to seek her, even in the full darkness of the house. He and Luka had played in every corner of the City as children, and the Houses of Healing had provided, more than once, a clever hideaway; he knew every turning in the dark, quite possibly in his sleep. And so he bounded to the chamber and shouldered open the door to find Katniss, whimpering and weeping and writhing in her small bed, troubled by fiendish dreams, as Prim helplessly mopped her brow with a damp cloth, entreating her to wake.

Robed in white, the lady was, and her long hair unbound upon the pillows. The young lord had never touched a woman before this day, save for a handclasp in greeting, and yet, without hesitation, he gently moved the Halfling aside and lowered himself to the mattress beside the Rohirric maid. He gathered Katniss in his strong arms, taking great care not to press or pull on her injured left arm, and cradled her to his chest.

The bow-maiden was very like a child in slumber, small and vulnerable and full of fear, and she did not struggle but sank against his solid warmth, as might a wind-battered lark into a crook of a tree, sobbing softly. And Peeta pressed his forehead to hers and murmured, “Katniss, valiant lady: Shadow has passed; the end is nigh, and the sun will rise again. Be at peace, Lady of Rohan,” he entreated softly, his breath sweet upon her cheek, and his words had the cadence of a lullaby. “You are safe in this place; no more harm shall befall you. Not in the White City, neither in this place of healing; not while its Steward holds you in his arms.”

Her breathing slowly grew even, and Peeta wiped away her tears with a gentle hand, and when the tears were gone, still he stroked her cheek, for the touch seemed to soothe her. And when at last she opened her eyes, the expression that lay within was unlike any he had seen there before. Neither hostile nor full of grief; in their gray depths was gratitude, and something else he could neither place nor fathom. She spoke no word, but gazed many long moments at the young lord, and he fancied that she found herself content in his embrace.

He sent Prim to the Warden for hot milk, rich with spices and honey, and coaxed Katniss to drink a little. When she had drunk her fill, he finished what remained and, with a tender touch to her cheek, made to return to his own chamber, but Katniss shook her head, a question in her eyes as she shyly drew back the coverlet.

Half afraid to hope, Peeta moved beneath the blanket to lie beside her once more and stretched out his arms to enfold her. And Katniss did not shrink back but nestled herself against his body, small and snug as a rabbit in its burrow, and quickly fell into an easy slumber, her dusky face pressed to his pale throat. The young lord wept, silent joyous tears upon her black hair, as he counted the slow, warm breaths fanning his skin; the soft, steady drum of her fierce heart. And when, at great length, he dared to close his eyes once more, he found his own slumber blissfully unbroken for her presence in his arms.

In the morn he left her, reluctant but early, lest she see him upon waking and regret the intimacy they had shared or the weakness in her that had allowed, nay, sought it. He returned to the garden in the gray dawn and walked alone, his thoughts full of many things, and soon became aware of a quiet presence at his side, silent as a shadow, pacing its steps to his. And lo, it was the Lady Katniss, gowned in silver, close enough to touch him, yet making no move to do so. Her eyes were less shadowed than the day before, and she gave him a careful smile. “You wished my presence, I think, lord?” she said.

Peeta smiled in return and offered her his arm, but he withheld the full measure of his delight, recalling too well her response the previous day to his words of admiration. “Will you walk a little with me, lady?” he asked. “These gardens were much beloved of my father, and I find myself eager to share them with another.”

Katniss rested her slim hand on his arm and they moved through the gardens at leisure, pausing now and again to regard a certain herb, remark on its properties, and compare its name in their respective tongues. Peeta found that the Rohirric maid’s knowledge of herbcraft far surpassed his own, and he returned briefly to the house for parchment and charcoal, of a mind to sketch the herbs Katniss identified, for in such a manner he was uncommonly gifted, and pair them with a written account of their virtues, according to the Rohirrim. In this he meant only to pass an hour or two in a pleasant manner, but the lady’s knowledge was so extensive – and she shared it without scowl or reluctance; indeed, there was a light in her voice, an animation in her movements as she disclosed the herblore she had learned from her mother – that he could not bear to lose a word of it. And in his turn he sketched, in detail both precise and lovely, the herbs of which she spoke, and Katniss openly admired the work of his hands, and bid him send for paints to further enhance his drawings.

They passed much of the day in this fashion. When it came time for a meal, Peeta sent word to the kitchens for foods he thought might please Katniss, and again cut up portions for them both before serving either of them. Still she did not remark upon it, but a small smile played about her lips as she watched the young lord, a small eating-knife in his large hand, reduce a haunch of meat to bite-sized pieces, as he might for a child.

Peeta had never given much thought to taking a wife, let alone to fathering children, not when he led the Rangers in Ithilien, not even when Luka still lived, golden and proud, and fought beside him at Osgiliath. But now, in these darkest of days, he sat in the gardens with Katniss and contemplated how lovely a mother the bow-maiden would make; how becoming the planes of her face would be, softened by pregnancy. He imagined another day in this place, sitting for a meal beneath the ancient apple tree, his chest bracing her back as his hands cradled her rounded belly, and their child within.

He blushed at the thought and looked up quickly from his work; a faint answering blush stained her dusky cheeks, and he wondered what might have caused it, but she spoke no word of explanation, nor did he. She took and ate the bread he offered, dipping it in honey as he had done the day before, and when he had poured the wine, she did not think it strange to drink from his cup.

She retired early to her chambers, and contentedly, it seemed, and Peeta too returned to the house to ready himself for bed, but he found he could not bear to lie down, and traversed the corridor on bare feet to linger outside Katniss’s chamber. There he paused, as a Ranger on the banks of the Anduin, to listen and wait, now crouching, now chafing his arms against the chill, now pressing his cheek to the wood of her door and willing with all of his being that she not be visited by terrors this night. Perhaps he could hold them back, he thought madly, standing, as he did, as sentinel over her slumbers.

And his patient vigilance was rewarded, if unhappily, by a soft cry from within, and at once he lifted the latch and went into the room. Katniss was alone this time, her nightmares having not yet roused the Halfling, and without hesitation he turned back the coverlet and lay down beside her, curling her in his arms and whispering tender reassurances.

Her quiet cries waned swiftly; perhaps the terror had not yet properly taken hold, or his presence, so early, had routed it. She opened her eyes – blessedly dry of tears they were, and undulled by despair – and brought her right hand to his face, combing her fingertips, half in wonder, through the soft golden beard that shadowed his pale cheek.

“Do you stay with me, man of Gondor?” she whispered.

“Always,” he answered her, and turned to press his lips to her palm.

She slipped her good arm about his waist to draw herself nearer and made a sound of protest when he held her back a little, out of concern for her wounded arm, still bound in its sling across her chest. At a word he carefully loosed the binding and drew back the linen, and with gentle hands he caressed the smooth dusky skin of the bow-maiden’s arm, at once seeking for tenderness and offering comfort with his touch. If it pained her, Katniss gave no sign, but shifted still closer, till her injured arm lay cradled between them, half upon the young lord’s chest, half upon her own. Her small hand brushed his chin, savoring the downy bristle of his beard against her knuckles, and he bent and kissed her fingers.

“What do you dream of, lady?” he murmured, resting his forehead against hers. “What is it that troubles your slumber with such sorrow and fear?”

“Fell Beasts,” she answered, “faceless horrors robed in black, and over all the Black Breath. Ghosts of those Shadows which have been, and which are yet to come. I see Abernathy King, crushed and powerless as the Witch-Queen’s beast devours him. I see Galen speared through the heart, or Lord Finnodair, and I am bowless and broken, and can do naught to save them.”

“I dream of fire,” he confessed. “Of my mother the Chatelaine, once fair and wise, burning in her madness all she once loved. And yet no longer,” he said. “For last night as I held you, I found my own sleep undisturbed by memories and fears.”

“And thus it was for myself,” she told him. “In your arms I felt a peace, such as I have not known since the days when my father rode as Marshal of the East-Mark.”

They spoke no more then, for the implication was clear. Peeta buried his face in her long black hair, and they slept, sweet and soundly, nourished by each other’s presence.

On the morrow, and in those days that followed it, Peeta did not leave the chamber until Katniss had wakened, nor did he resent the delay. They broke their fast together, taking seed-cakes and fruit from each other’s hands, then descended, silent but inseparable, to walk in the gardens. Peeta continued his illustrations of Rohirric herbcraft, till he had pages sufficient for a small healer’s companion, and when Katniss left him, from time to time, to walk a while alone, he turned his hand to sketching her, and found he could scarce bear to stop. For Katniss was surpassing lovely, and charcoal and parchment captured what words, even those of the shimmering Elven tongue, could not. And he knew, with every stroke on the page, he drew nearer to the moment when she must leave him.

He was wise, the young lord, well beyond his tender years, and his Númenórean blood ran strong. He would have defended Katniss with the last breath in his body, from the first hour of their meeting, but he knew, in the very marrow of his being, that this was not the doom that awaited them. Though he knew not how it should unfold, the King would return and Katniss depart, to Meduseld’s Golden Hall with her brother, or perhaps to the Citadel above the gardens where they now tarried, to be enthroned as queen of Gondor. For he could scarce credit the Halfling’s account of Lord Finnodair’s indifference to the Rohirric maid, and feared, more than Shadow or flame, the hour when they must be parted, by one king’s will or another.

He knew her sojourn in the Houses of Healing was brief, and that she would think of him little enough when she departed, if at all. Yes, there was sometimes a softness in her gray eyes when she looked on him, when their hands brushed in the sharing of bread and wine, and his heart swelled with joy, but he knew better than to suppose the bow-maiden saw his presence as anything other than a crag in a mountain face into which she might crawl, however briefly, for shelter and solace. But he kept his own counsel, and spoke of these things to no one.

And they passed many pleasant hours in the garden, the bow-maiden and the young lord. Sometimes Prim joined them, and Peeta did not begrudge the presence of the merry Halfling, without whose aid Katniss would surely have fallen before the Witch-Queen. In idle moments she unplaited and combed Katniss’s long black hair, the sight of which, unbound in the light of day, was wondrous to Peeta, and when she ceased in her ministrations for one Hobbit mealtime or another, it seemed only natural that the young lord should resume them, and gently guide the silver comb through Katniss’s hair, over and over again, till it draped her shoulders in a sleek cascade.

After luncheon, which always they shared, he lay beneath the ancient apple tree, taking his ease for a quarter-hour or so, and Katniss sat beside him and sang strange songs in Rohirric, and the unexpected beauty of her voice pierced his heart. For that reason alone, he realized, he would have loved her, and he entreated her, as boldly as he dared, for as many songs as she would grant him, no matter how lowly or mournful their subject. And he called her _dúlinn_ in his mind, and once or twice with his lips, as an endearment, for like the bird she was small and dark, quick and keen-eyed, with a voice to melt Shadow; to make the sun beam ever brighter and the stars to dance.

He woke once to tears on his cheeks and Katniss’s hand trailing, haltingly but tender, through his curls as she sang, and another time discovered she had shifted him as he slept and laid his head in her lap, pillowed on her strong thigh.  And it kindled a fire in his belly, soft as a hearth but hungry, for the warmth of the bow-maiden’s form in his arms, sought in joy, not in fear. For the touch of her lips upon his cheek, his brow, his throat; for her dusky limbs twined about his pale body, damp not from night terrors but from the exertions of passion and pleasure.

He ached with longing to see Katniss soft-eyed and heavy with child; to see their children, black-haired and golden, playing in the gardens so beloved by his father, where they now took their ease. But he held his tongue, for he knew the words would offend, and pressed his cheek to her skirt to hide his grief. And Katniss, feeling the small sobs that shook him, carefully freed her arm from its sling, then brought one hand to his strong shoulders and the other to his hair, and if she marveled that her touch did not soothe him but wrought sobs deeper still, she did not remark upon it. But her hand drifted over his face, catching up the tears that stained his cheeks, and, unable to help himself, he drew her fingers to his lips and kissed them ardently.

And every night, when Katniss retired to her chamber, Peeta readied himself for slumber and came to join her in her small bed: an unspoken arrangement, agreed upon by the simple acknowledgment that each slept better in the arms of the other, and as natural as breath. Katniss was less reserved at night: often she lay, her head on the young lord’s chest, and whispered tales of her life at Meduseld, and in her hushed and lovely voice, ordinary doings took on the majesty of a great ballad, populated by her fiery brother Galen – more horse than Rider, she said, with his black mane and flashing eyes – and her foster father, King Abernathy, at once fearsome and impossibly kind, whom she swore could cleave stone with one stroke of his mighty blade. And it seemed as she spoke that, despite the sweet odors of crushed herbs, resins, and wood smoke that pervaded every chamber in the house, he could smell the sharp mountain air on her, the warm musk of horseflesh and the honey-like comfort of worn leather.

In his turn Peeta stroked her back and told her of Luka, who had preferred wrestling to swordplay, though he could best his little brother at both, and of their father, brother to the Prince of Dol Amroth; the kindest of men and as fine a healer as any of the kings of old. He it was who had planted many of the herbs now flourishing in the gardens of the Houses of Healing, and often he had passed hours consulting with the Warden Aurelius or laughing with Sae, eldest of the herbwives, as he ground roots in a mortar, and yet he had turned his gentle hands to warcraft to protect his sons and to please his wife the Chatelaine, who had been proud and beautiful ere her madness. He had died upon an Orc’s blade, a Captain adept and beloved, and deeply mourned, in Peeta’s eighth year.

Katniss held Peeta even tighter at that, for she knew what it was to lose a father to war, and a mother to grief. Her own father, a good and valiant man, with the finest voice ever raised in song among the men of the Mark, had fallen in her seventh year, and his wife, fair and fragile as a _simbelmynë_ bloom, had faded into death soon after.

Thus they lay, and thus they spoke, and oftimes still Katniss was taken by nightmares, though always Peeta was there to ease them, with soft words and the shelter of his arms, till he knew the shape of the bow-maiden’s body as well as his own. And once, when neither embrace nor gentle whisper nor healer’s brew could soothe her tremors, he lifted her slim form in his arms and carried her to the window, cradling her dark head upon his shoulder. “Look east, Katniss,” he murmured, pressing his cheek to her forehead. “Look east, where long our doom has lingered, and from whence our hopes shall return. The sun shall rise, swift and soon, and the King return. My lord, yea, and him of Eorlingas.”

At these words her tremors ceased, and she lifted her eyes to his, for he had used her people’s own name for themselves, not _Rohirrim_ , that which they were called by the men of Gondor. “Galen will return, Katniss,” Peeta said softly, and he dipped his head to kiss her brow. “He will not leave the Golden Hall without a king, nor its lady without her brother.”

Hearing this, Katniss raised both hands to his face – carefully, for her left arm still pained her, though she no longer wore the sling – and drew him lower, and pressed a kiss to his bearded cheek. Then she sank against his chest, spent by her fears, and surrendered at once to peaceful slumber, but Peeta stood before the window another hour or more, gazing not east but at the Lady Katniss asleep in his arms, and trembled.

And the Warden looked upon them and smiled, for here, he knew, was a true healing, greater even than that wrought by Lord Finnodair. But he kept his own counsel, for such a tender bud is not to be forced.

The next day – the fifth since first they spoke beneath the apple tree, and the seventh since the departure of the Captains – dawned uncommon cold, and ere the young lord and the bow-maiden descended to the gardens, Peeta sent for a fur-edged mantle his father had given to his mother the Chatelaine, long ere her madness, and wrapped it around the Lady Katniss’s shoulders. The color of sunset, it was: vermilion and amber and violet and rose, seamlessly interwoven; it flowed and danced around her slim form as her black hair, which she had left unbound that morn, billowed in the chill wind, and he thought she had never looked more radiant – nor more distant.

They walked not about the gardens but along the walls of the City, and though Peeta’s gaze lingered upon the bow-maiden’s grave face, her eyes were focused solely eastward, where thunderheads, black as Shadow and weighty as iron, bore down upon the distant mountains. “You fear for him,” he said quietly, not elaborating, even within his own mind, as to which of the Captains he spoke.

“Do not you?” she asked, turning a moment to look at him in surprise. “He is _your_ king, lord, and should he fall, your own end must rapidly follow.”

“What you say is true,” he told her, “not least regarding the doom that may come, and yet my heart is light. I do not fear for Lord Finnodair, nor for those who ride in his company.”

“I would I could think likewise,” she answered him, and turned to look outward once more, her dusky face shadowed and anxious.

Peeta drew closer to her, near enough to touch, though he did not. “I know, lady, that were the choice given, you would have spent this sevennight in any another place,” he said gently. “Even death you would have preferred to this healer’s confinement. Thus I hope you will not think ill of me if I say that these seven days have been the happiest of my life, surpassing every joyous day I have known before. Indeed, I would trade every one of those days, and a good deal more besides, to remain in this place, in this company, for even a little while longer.”

She turned fully to regard him then, troubled at his words, and her fine brow furrowed. And the young lord spoke again: “If I fear in this hour, Katniss,” he said, “it is to lose what I have found here.”

“And what have you found in these quiet days, lord, that you should fear to lose?” she wondered, frowning. “For which you would trade every remembered joy?”

He spoke no word in reply, but held her gaze in weighty silence, and her breath caught at the ardor upon his face, bright and unshielded. “Do not look thus upon me, lord,” she cried, “for I neither desire nor deserve such regard.  I am a bow-maiden of Rohan, dark and fierce.”

“And in these things, and countless others, you are surpassing beautiful,” he said, reaching for her hand. “Your presence has been to me a balm far greater than athelas, and I think mine has been to you the same.”

“You offer me pity,” she said, scowling, and withdrew her hand from his. “I want none of it.”

“Pity?” he echoed, sore wounded, both by her words and her rejection of his touch. “Do you suppose it pity that walks with you in these gardens? That breaks bread with you under these trees and drinks wine from your cup?”

She made to turn away then, to depart into the gardens, but he caught her shoulders, gently but firm, and stayed her before him. “Do you think it pity that shares your bed?” he asked softly. “That holds you in its arms, night after night, your face pillowed upon its breast?”

Her dusky cheeks burned crimson. “If not pity, then what?” she challenged, though her gray eyes were wide, fearful even, as a hare before hounds.

“I pitied you once,” he confessed, “when first we met, for the grief that drove you to prefer death to a full healing. Yet now, in this time of darkness and terror: you are the sun, lady,” he breathed, and he loosed her shoulders to take her hands in his. “I anticipate and follow you as the blooms of this garden, unfolding their petals to feel its warmth. I bask in your presence and find myself rested and restored. I welcome you into my arms every night, and you sink into them as naturally and gloriously as the setting sun.”

“Look not to me for such comforts, man of Gondor,” she said, and her voice, though edged, trembled with something he could not quite name. “I am fit company for no man, nor is my heart a haven for his.” With this she made to turn from him again and return to the house, and being fully recovered in strength, and Peeta of no real mind to hinder her, she might well have done, but at that moment there came a strange stillness, within and without them, as though every creature, leaf, and stone held its breath in anticipation of a shout of triumph or cry of defeat.

As one, they raised their eyes to the east, and there was fearful darkness, and lightning, violent and bold, and the very stones of the wall seemed to tremor beneath their feet. And Katniss drew near to Peeta, and he opened his arms to her, as he had done every night since their meeting, and enfolded her to him, shielding her with his own flesh as he braced for the black wave which must surely descend and devour every land and creature in its path.

Yet instead they felt a wind, warm and fragrant as the first of summer, and looked up to see the sun, beaming bright and glorious in a sky clear and pale, where but a breath ago had been direst Shadow and fury and might. And Peeta gave a small sob, and it was a joyous sound, though a tear fell upon his cheek.

“Are we undone?” Katniss whispered, and she caught his face in her hands. “Why now do you weep, lord?”

Peeta smiled and covered her hands with his own. “I weep at my King’s triumph, lady,” he said. “For the dark days which are past, and the golden which lie ahead.”

She gazed up at him in wonder, perhaps at these tidings, or at his sure knowledge of them, and the young lord continued somberly, “And now I must take up my authority as Steward in the City, for the King’s return, I doubt not, shall be swift. If still you wish to depart this house, send word to me on the morrow, and I shall see you discharged from the healers’ care.” Then with a sigh he bent and pressed a kiss, soft yet lingering, upon her cheek.

And there was a farewell in that kiss; a strange, sharp sorrow that made Katniss cling to him, to hold him near, her hands still cupping his face. When at last he raised his head and drew her hands away, he did so with an air of loss, and his breath came raggedly, as a man of whom suddenly an impossible thing has been asked.

“I wish you joy, Lady of Rohan,” he said, though his eyes were grave, and he kissed her dusky hands – once, twice; a third time, even, as though he could not bear to stop – and pressed them one last time to his face, and she felt tears and warm breath upon her fingers.

Then he took his leave of her, and departed from the Houses of Healing.

***

And in the days that followed, Lord Peeta, now standing in full authority as Steward of the City, was much occupied in preparations for the coming of the King, as one setting a house in order for his master’s return. But the Lady Katniss remained in the Houses of Healing, and did not send word to him, asking leave to depart.

And though he was much occupied, Peeta descended to the kitchens before every meal and prepared Katniss’s tray with his own hands, carving for her the choicest cuts of meat, breaking the bread they would have shared, and placing his own eating-knife among the dishes for her use.  But she did not send word to him, asking leave to depart.

So the young Steward sent maidens to Katniss, to comb and coif her black hair and robe her in raiment fit for a queen, yea, for the very queen of Gondor. And they returned to him, saying that the lady was pale and silent, and desired neither company nor fine clothes, but sat long whiles beneath an apple tree, and now and again sang sad songs in a strange tongue. And still she did not send word to him, asking leave to depart.

And Peeta found his slumber broken by nightmares once more, and from time to time cried out in his sleep and reached for the bow-maiden, but always he woke to find himself alone in the Steward’s chambers, and heartsick with it. And he yearned for Katniss, for even one more hour in her presence, but he did not go to her, nor bid her be brought to him, for he knew she longed for another, and his own presence would bring her no joy.

In due course Prim the Halfling was sent for, and departed in merry haste to join her kin at Cair Andros, and Peeta wondered that Katniss did not ask to accompany her when, but a short while ago, she wished for nothing more in the world, save perhaps a warrior’s death, than to ride out to join the Captains. And soon after, Katniss’s brother, the king of Rohan himself, sent word by the fleetest riders, entreating her to leave the White City posthaste and join in the feasting at Cormallen. To these riders Peeta gave every assurance that the lady was free to depart, and would surely quit the City that very day to be reunited with her brother, and he sent them unto the Warden, that they might relay their message to him and to the Lady Katniss. And they departed but a short time later, much troubled in countenance, and without the bow-maiden in their company.

At this Peeta was deeply distressed and went to the Warden himself, who could tell him little, save that in all the White City, only Katniss seemed to languish, and not for want of care. She ate what was sent by the Steward but would not take restorative tonics from the healers; she suffered the presence of the maidens sent to attend her but did not engage them in conversation. Moreover, the Warden told him, she suffered again of nightmares, not severe but persistent, and more often than not spent her sleeping hours weeping and whimpering and fisting her dusky hands in the coverlet.

Peeta thought upon the Warden’s words, of Katniss’s listless behavior, and of the fears that troubled her nights once more, and went at last into the gardens to seek her, for he could not bear the bow-maiden’s sorrow and would do all in his power to ease it, no matter the grief to himself. And there he found her, walking along the walls of the City, where last they had been together. Garbed as a queen of Rohan, she was: magnificently gowned in green and white, and her black hair threaded with gold, and Peeta caught his breath at the sight of her, for she was at once more beautiful than ever he had imagined and sadder than he had ever seen.

He stood before her in quiet grandeur, richly arrayed in black and silver, with the White Tree blazoned on his breast, and a hundred thoughts clamored to be given voice, but he suppressed all, and said only, and in a gentle voice, “Are you ill, lady?”

Her gray eyes flared strangely at these words, but she shook her head. “Nay, lord,” she answered, “save perhaps in my heart.”

At this his own heart pained him keenly, but he bade himself say, “You did not send word to me, though many days ago I assured you that leave would be granted, and at once you might depart.”

Katniss gave no reply, but regarded him solemnly, and he continued, “The Halfling maid rode out to meet her fellows at Cair Andros, and you did not ask to join her.” And still she did not speak, but held her strange silence, and Peeta was troubled exceedingly by her reticence. “Your brother the king sent riders, and begged for you to join him at Cormallen, and still you did not go,” he said, and in his soft voice there was no little desperation for understanding. “And this I cannot comprehend, for if you are so unhappy in this place, and there is no impediment to your departure, neither from Warden nor Steward, why do you not quit it? What holds you here?”

And it seemed that she smiled inwardly, for her eyes grew brighter, though her lips were still and grave. “Do not you know, lord?” she asked.

“I do not,” he replied, “and your sorrow in this place weighs heavy upon my heart. I can but hazard a guess,” he said, and great was his pain that the words must be spoken, and the breadth of her passion no longer denied. “You do not go because only Galen called for you, and his was not the summons you hoped for, nor, indeed, awaited.”

“And for that I should defy the Lord of the Mark?” she challenged, raising one raven brow. “Do you think me so haughty, lord, as to refuse a request because it came from one king and not another? That I should more readily answer a summons from your lord than my own, for whom I have feared these many days, and whom I love as both brother and king?”

“It is foolishness, I warrant,” he admitted, and his cheeks burned at her scorn. “But what remains? You are sad in this place, yet you will not leave, and I find I cannot make sense of it.”

“You are accounted a man of wisdom, Peeta, Janek’s son,” she said, or rather mused, and there was a smile now, present yet hidden, playing about the corners of her fine, firm lips. “A man of discernment, to whom dreams and visions are both clear and commonplace, and yet this smallest riddle defeats you.”

“What can you mean?” the young Steward asked.

Katniss stepped close to him and brought her small hands to his strong shoulders, and her eyes shone silver, as the Anduin by moonlight. “Your heart burns in your breast as an ember,” she murmured. “And I have dwelt too long in the cold.” And she bent her proud dark head and pressed her lips to the White Tree upon his jerkin, where its branches spanned his racing heart. “In your presence I forget the ringing of sword on shield,” she said, raising her face to his, and her gaze, always so fierce, was impossibly tender. “Forget, and do not miss. Instead, I long for a place of herb-lore and healing, of quiet walks and meals shared in a garden. And for you,” she said softly. “For you at my side, and in my arms, I long most of all.”

Peeta met her eyes, his own wide with disbelief and wonder, and found he could scarcely draw breath. “Katniss,” he whispered. “ _Lle mela amin.  Anwa ri’il anwa?_ ”

He put the words to her in the Elven tongue, that she might not understand, and make her refusal a gentler thing. And she was not a lady fluent in the tongues of Elves, and yet she did not hesitate. “ _Anwa_ ,” she whispered in reply.

Peeta was filled with a joy so exquisite that tears came to his eyes, and with a small cry, he caught Katniss by the waist, bent his face to hers and kissed her fiercely, over and over again. And she laughed against his mouth – a sound more full of gladness than any ever before heard in that place – and curled her arms about his neck, and kissed him in return, scarcely pausing for breath.

When at last their kisses waned, they did not move apart but stood as they had lain those four nights in Katniss’s chamber: arms wound about each other, and the young Steward’s forehead pressed to the bow-maiden’s. “ _Dúlinn_ ,” he sighed, and the word was a caress. “Katniss – can this be true?”

“I have loved you since our first meal in this garden,” she told him, smiling truly now, and the beauty of her face, made radiant in bliss, was almost blinding. “Since you gave me the sop of honey-bread, and carved my portion and yours together.” And she drew his head down a little to press her cheek to his.

“I have loved the longer, I think,” he said, and his voice brimmed with merriment. “For I loved you the moment you first stood before me, dressed in my boyhood garb, with your hair in two plaits instead of one.” And he brought a hand to her temple and buried his fingers in her hair, now gloriously unbound and woven through with gold.

“I thought you did not want me,” she confessed, and leaned longingly into his touch. “For though you spoke of love, still you offered me leave to go, and avenues abundant, and did not bid me stay. And I despaired, for I could not bear to be parted from you, even a little ways.”

“I had never wanted you more,” he replied, embracing her tightly to him, “nor wished less to be parted from you. But I would not hold you against your will.”

“My will is to remain with you always,” she said, “if you will have me, Steward of Gondor.”

“When the King returns, that office shall be ended, and the White City no longer my home,” he told her. “But I know a place of quiet meadows and flowered glades, fit for herbcraft and healing, just as you longed for. Ithilien it is, and we shall make our home there, if so you wish it, and plant a garden in every fallow space.”

At this Katniss laughed again, and it was a sound bright and musical and full of joy. “I should like that above all things,” she answered, and drew back a little to meet Peeta’s eyes. “My mother was a healer among the Eorlingas, and I should delight to practice her craft in a time of peace.”

“But I would not have you forsake your bow,” he said suddenly, and his countenance was drawn with concern. “For I am told you are uncommon skilled, greater far than my own Rangers.”

“Neither had I offered so to do,” she replied, grinning like a child, “It pleases me that my small skills are of note to the Steward of Gondor, though I fear he sets much store by the tales of Holbytla maids.”

At this he took her left arm in his hands and, turning back the sleeve, raised it to his lips, pressing tender kisses down the length of her forearm. “When your arm is fully knitted once more, I shall secure for you a new bow,” he promised. “Elven-made, no matter how rare and costly. And all of Gondor shall marvel – ”

“Yea, that their wise young Steward was taken in by a dark huntress of the North,” she said, though she smiled widely, and her silver eyes danced.

“Even so,” he agreed, and kissed her again.

Some moments later they came before the Warden, breathless with joy; their hands, dusky and fair, interwoven between them. “The Lady Katniss is healed,” Peeta told him. “And thus I request she be discharged from your keeping.”

“She was healed long ago, lord,” the Warden said, for though an aged man, his eyes were keen. “I, in my turn, commend her to your care. Love and keep her as you have done, and never Shadow shall part you.” Then he kissed the Lady Katniss’s brow, and Lord Peeta’s, and declared them both free of his charge.

And together the Steward and the bow-maiden departed the Houses of Healing.


End file.
